


From A Distant Shore

by imachar



Series: The Weight of a Man [9]
Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Masturbation, Phone Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-08-02
Updated: 2011-08-02
Packaged: 2017-10-22 03:39:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,481
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/233329
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imachar/pseuds/imachar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Comm-sex and just a little angst – Phil’s been gone for 18 months and Chris is bored.</p>
            </blockquote>





	From A Distant Shore

**Author's Note:**

> Beta: the wonderful Zauzat.

It’s 22:15 on a Friday night and Chris Pike is slumped in his favourite chair, feet resting on the coffee table, editing the first draft of a cadet’s senior thesis and wondering whom the hell he fucked over in a previous life to earn this kind of karma. He’s sufficiently bored that he keeps pausing in his reading, closing his eyes to mentally conduct Beethoven’s Symphony #3 in E♭that is playing on the apartment sound system. But neither the music nor the extremely high-quality whisky that’s sitting in a glass by his right hand are mellowing him at all and he really should put his PADD aside and quit reading before he loses the battle he’s fighting with his natural tendency toward sarcasm and makes some comment that’s going to reduce the offending cadet to tears when he sends this back at the end of the weekend.

First drafts are always a bitch; disorganized, badly conceptualized and inevitably riddled with bad grammar, half-assed, unsupportable theories and far too few citations. This one is a prime example of all the reasons Chris hates this part of the job; a piss-poor analysis of the application of Ó’Thuathail’s theories of asymmetric warfare to the conduct of raider containment on the Tzenkethi border, and he has to find someway to shift the cadet’s focus so he actually says something useful in the 100-or-so pages that Chris is going to have to read again - at least three times - without rewriting the entire fucking thesis himself.

He drops the PADD onto his bent knees and rolls his neck, stretching his head against the back of the chair and then lifting his gaze to take in the view beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows that he rarely polarizes given that it would be a challenge for anyone to overlook this 16th floor apartment and anyway, it’s not like he’s had the opportunity to do anything worth watching recently.

For once the view doesn’t cheer him. Across Richardson Bay he can see the creatively lit sprawl of the 200-year old Belvedere Island Arts Center, the cantilevered curves of the Osher Auditorium glowing from within. It’s a gorgeous building, one part Moshe Safdie, nine parts Renzo Piano, with just a dash of Frank Gehry and Chris wonders who’s playing there tonight. It’s one of the things he really misses with Phil gone, the ritual of going out to an event – making the effort to dress for the evening, go out to one of their favourite restaurants and then to spend a couple of hours absorbing a spectacular performance of anything from Mahler to Mundahlan jazz.

Damn, now he’s starting to feel just a little dejected and he shakes himself, trying to dispel the empty ache that wells up at the thought of another solitary weekend. He’s not a big fan of self-pity and he’s done a pretty good job of keeping occupied in Phil’s absence – but last weekend John Mowbray finally left to go rejoin his ship after a month of emergency furlough to sort out custody arrangements for his boys. Now, with his best friend also gone, Chris isn’t even going to have anyone to get in trouble with and he slumps a little more, reaching out for the glass of 25-year-old Talisker that’s resting on the floor by his chair and taking a long, appreciative swallow in a vain attempt to wash away the frustration and convince himself that it really is a Friday night. With luck the rest of the whisky will mellow him enough to finish this damn thesis without wearing out the pressure-sensitive tip of his stylus.

The cool smooth rim of the glass is resting against his lower lip when a distinctive chime from his other PADD - the personal one, the one that isn’t Starfleet issue - alerts him to the fact that after a month of silence, Phil is finally back in voice-comm range. He moves so fast that he briefly clips his lip with the edge of his glass and splashes a little of the scotch onto his t-shirt as he reaches out to activate the device with a vague wave of his hand over the motion-sensor before gesturing at the wall-mounted sensor to shut off the music.

“You there?” Phil sounds tired but there’s a low, easy warmth to his tone that makes Chris miss him so badly that for a moment he can’t get his voice to work. Then a waft of whisky vapour from his shirt snaps him back to reality and Chris tries to keep a trace of humour in his voice as he grouses.

“Where else would I be on a Friday night?”

“Oh, one of those weeks?”

“No, just bored and sex-starved and spending a Friday night reading a thesis when I should be in bed with you.” Chris winces at the petulance in his voice and is kind of glad that the limited bandwidth of the communications relays from out beyond _Deep Space Five_ precludes vid-communications for any but high-level official conferences. At least Phil doesn’t have to witness his adolescent irritability.

“I’ll see your boredom and raise you an outbreak of Telurian plague on _Rhandaar_ and a coolant leak on the _Ho Chi Minh_ – I haven’t had more than four hours sleep any night in the last week.”

Chris winces again, guilt this time warring with entirely inexcusable envy at the thought that at least Phil has a little excitement in his life. “Not good for you sweetheart – you sure you want to be talking to me and not catching up on your sleep?”

“Wouldn’t miss this for the world darlin’ – it’s been way too long since I heard your voice. Anyway.” His voice sharpens a little and Chris knows the tone, knows exactly where this headed, and knows exactly what he did to warrant it. “I heard a rumour you got plenty of excitement a couple of weeks ago.”

“What did you hear?” No point in trying to delay the inevitable.

“I ran into John at _Starbase 718_ a couple of days ago, he told me all about your weekend down at Half-Moon Bay.”

“O-kay...” Chris sighs, knows he’s about to get seriously chewed out. Phil’s never been happy at Chris’ more egregious ways of achieving the adrenaline rush that he misses now that he’s no longer out in the black and surfing the Mavericks at the tail end of a Pacific winter storm would be really high up on the list of ostentatiously dangerous ways to get an adrenaline fix.

“Yeah – I have just one question – _**what the fuck were you thinking?**_ ”

There’s no real way to respond to that; Chris has the feeling Phil’s not looking for a response and is in fact not really interested in _anything_ Chris has to say right now, rather Phil’s busy working up to a rant about Chris’ risk-taking behavior that is about to make Chris feel like he did the night he borrowed his dad’s vintage Ducati and ran it into a drainage ditch just outside of Barstow – adrenaline junkie even at fifteen. So he just shuts up, sits tight and lets Phil get the tirade out of his system.

“So, according to John, who was way more informative than usual, I suppose I don’t need to tell you your best friend runs off at the mouth when he’s had too much to drink. And by the way, cost me a damn fucking fortune to get him that well lubricated – damned Kiwi alcohol tolerance - but once he was tanked he was more than happy to tell me how much fun you guys had on those twenty meter waves. Twenty meters Chris, twenty fucking meters? Have you any fucking clue how many ways you can die doing something like that? No? Hadn’t thought about it? Well let me tell you…”

Phil’s seriously over-reacting here, it’s not the first time and Chris is pretty damn sure that it won’t be the last and he’s not overly concerned about it. They’ve discovered over the last eighteen months that neither of them does very well when they’re separated for long periods of time, and they’ve developed coping mechanisms that would probably be regarded as seriously dysfunctional by anyone in the Starfleet Psych Division, but seem to be working for them. Just the fact that Phil is yelling rather than using his ice-cold, I’m-going-to-eviscerate-you-with-sarcasm voice means that his heart isn’t really in it and that this is more about letting off steam than sending Chris any kind of message. Reaching for his malt, Chris just makes himself a little more comfortable, waits until Phil takes a long breath and then asks quietly.

“You done?”

The silence extends just long enough that Chris tenses, briefly worried that this time Phil is really much more pissed off than Chris had at first thought, but the quiet sigh and dry resignation of Phil’s next statement relaxes him again. “Yeah, not like it’s going to make any difference is it?”

“Nope – I know you don’t like it when I do this shit Phil, but you have to trust that I know what I’m doing. I’m fucking good at risk assessment.” He is, Chris’ ability to calculate threat assessments, a major component of which is risk evaluation, is one reason he’s such a brilliant tactician and he knows exactly how dangerous his weekend stress-relief excursions are. He also knows exactly how dangerous _Phil’s_ current assignment is and only just manages to stop himself from pointing out that his partner’s most recent posting, out on the far edge of the Federation, hard up by the Romulan Empire in space that is both treacherous and largely uncharted, puts Phil and the rest of the crew of the _USS Henry Blake_ far out on the wrong end of Starfleet’s likely-to-survive-their-current-mission bell curve.

“I know, I know – I’m sorry – I didn’t mean to do that. Goddamit, I haven’t spoken to you in four weeks – the last thing I want is to be mad at you.” Phil manages to convey weariness, and a slightly wry embarrassment at his outburst and in that moment all Chris wants is to wrap himself around Phil’s tired, stressed, overworked body and hold him until they both fall asleep – but he knows better than to say any such thing. He won’t be able to hold Phil, to bury his face in the sweet curve of neck and shoulder and breathe in the woody, slightly musky scent of exhausted, work-weary doctor for many, many weeks to come and dwelling on their separation just makes it that much worse. So he forcibly shoves away any thoughts of just how long it will be before he can indulge his need to touch and taste and lay his long, lean and preferably _naked_ body along the length of Phil’s equally naked form and goes for the most effective redirection he can think of.

“Yeah, I know, you’re just frustrated. Sounds like you could do with getting laid as much as I could.”

“Damn right about that – I’ve been too tired to even jerk off the last couple of weeks.”

“Seriously? I don’t think I’ve ever been too tired to go more than a week.”

“Bullshit – you’ve had a couple of long dry spells – after _Rigel IV_ , or…” the humour in Phil’s voice radiates across subspace, “…the time you picked up that weird fungal infection on _Galen Prime_.” Chris is momentarily grateful that Phil doesn’t find it necessary to mention _Zalda_ and the clusterfuck of a mission that left him struggling with months of guilt-induced performance issues.

“Yeah Phil, but time spent recovering from almost dying doesn’t really count.” Chris pauses for a moment and shifts himself on the chair – slumping a little further and bracing his feet on the edge of the coffee table, legs bent and slightly parted. “You got some time?”

“Just came off shift.” Despite the clear weariness in Phil’s voice, there’s an underlying thread of humour in it and just a hint that he knows where Chris is going with this.

“Mmm, great. You want to get off?” Chris knows he has to be the one to issue this particular invitation and he makes it as clear and unequivocal as he can.

“Chris…” Phil draws out the single syllable, his voice clearly conveying caution. Chris pauses for just a moment, he knows exactly why Phil is trying to be careful, always the responsible adult in the relationship. They don’t do this often, not when they’re using Starfleet-based communications and it’s always Chris who initiates the potentially risk-laden activity. Technically, anything that passes through these channels and isn’t classified is a matter of public record and, while Chris can’t imagine why anyone would be interested in his sex-life, he’s aware enough of his sensitive political position as heir-apparent to the captaincy of the new flagship to want to limit his exposure to this kind of potential embarrassment. But, goddammit, it‘s been weeks since he’s had the warm, rich roughness of Phil’s voice on the other end of a comm line, almost five months since he’s had the privilege of that voice, and the man that goes with it in his bed, and tonight he wants, no he _needs_ , to come to the sound of it and he really doesn’t give a shit about the possible consequences.

“I don’t care Phil, I really don’t give a damn. If some perverted bastard wants to get off on listening to us then let them.”

“That’s not why I think we should be careful. Someone could use this against you.”

“You really think so? I can’t imagine there’s anyone on the Command Allocation Board that hasn’t done this at some point in their career.” Chris pauses again and follows up with a slightly evil chuckle. “Well, except maybe for Barnett, that son-of-a-bitch has never had a deep space assignment, fucking lawyer.”

“You’re digressing – seriously Chris, you want to do this?”

“Jesus, _yes_ …” there’s a world of need and not a little impatience in Chris’ tone, and he scratches his nails lightly through the silky curls below his navel, carefully avoiding any contact with the cock that’s beginning to fill and twitch under his loose sleep-pants. “…. _please_ …” He’s not above a little verbal manipulation and he knows he can turn Phil to mush with some judiciously applied begging.

There’s a long moment of silence that seems to vibrate through sub-space before Phil breaks the tension with a slightly filthy laugh.

“I knew it, you kinky bastard – shouting at you just gives you a hard-on.”

It’s true enough that Chris isn’t about to deny it and he just responds with an equally evil chuckle. “Such a fucking hypocrite, tell me you aren’t hard from yelling at me.”

“Just getting a head-start on the make-up sex.”

“Smartass…” He’s relaxed now that he knows that they’re going to do this and Chris engages both hands as he begins the slow, exquisitely sweet build up to what he hopes will be the best orgasm he’s had since they last did this, almost two months ago. The fingers of his left hand curl easily around the flannel-clad firmness of his cock as it lengthens along the seam between thigh and torso, while those of the right slide up under the soft cotton of his ancient t-shirt, tracing slow circles over the slightly flexed muscles of his abdomen, making himself shiver as he works towards an already taut nipple. As Chris waits for Phil to drop his voice to the low, diesel-engine growl that can raise the hair on the back of his neck and send a prickle of heat blooming over his skin, he gives himself a firm squeeze, thumb teasing against his foreskin, pulling it back just a fraction and shuddering at the sweet, sharp intensity of the sensation that ripples up his spine. He can’t quite contain the quiet, almost involuntary sound of bone-deep need that breaks free as his thumb works across dampened flannel and it’s all the encouragement Phil seems to need to go on and ask.

“So darling boy, what are you wearing to stay home and work on a Friday night?”

“T-shirt and a pair of your flannel sleep-pants.”

“Mine?”

“Mhmm…the dark gray ones, with the cord-tie and the over-generous fly.”

“Oh yeah, I like those, I especially like them on you.” Phil’s voice has gone low and dark and lazy and Chris can tell that he’s making himself comfortable, can picture him stretched out on his bunk, back resting on the pillows piled against the built-in headboard, but he could use a little more detail.

“You?”

“Nothing.”

That admission sends a sharp little spasm of lust firing through Chris’ nerves and he only just manages not to moan at the thought of a naked Phil, settling instead for a another, slightly more decisive, squeeze along his cock and a half laughed, “Oh fuck, seriously, so the yelling really was all just foreplay – you planned this.”

Phil just laughs, all trace of weariness gone and the sound of it warms Chris through.

“Nah, I’ve just come out of the shower – I didn’t know if I was even going to get you – we’ve been in and out of relay range for the last few hours.”

“So - what? You were going to take care of yourself?”

“Uh-huh.” There’s a brief pause before Phil goes on. “Now, how about you touch that spectacularly gorgeous prick of yours, just a tease, just the tips of your fingers, _man_ I just love watching you do that.”

“Already there babe. You’re gonna need to play catch up.” Chris rubs the heel of his hand firmly against his length before he stretches his fingers purposefully down under his waistband, letting his knuckles brush up against the velvet heat of his now thoroughly firmed cock.

“Impatient boy.” There’s the hint of a filthy laugh in Phil’s voice and then the tone mellows as he suggests, “Well then, stroke yourself, the whole length, easy, not too tight.”

Chris gives a slightly breathy grunt as he wraps his fingers loosely around the velvet-hot shaft, sparks of sensation whispering out along his nerves – heat beginning to surge through his body in slow, molten waves. A tighter grip and the friction shifts from enticing to just a little too much and Chris grits out, “Damn, no lube.”

“Coffee table – third drawer?”

“Ah...no, umm….” Chris is not entirely sure why he’s slightly reluctant to admit to Phil that he moved the not-quite-but-near-as-dammit economy size bottle of lube to the shower, except that maybe he’s just a little embarrassed at the frequency with which he exorcises his loneliness with his left hand. “…moved that to the shower, just give me a minute.”

Chris clicks his fingers over his PADD and gestures in the direction of the vid-screen above the fireplace, the portal to the apartment’s communication system, and once the audio has transferred to the house system he gestures again to transfer the feed to the master bedroom.

****

As soon as he leaves the living room and enters the darkened space of the master, it’s windows safely polarized, Chris pulls the tie-cord on his pants and lets them drop to the floor before leaning over and swiftly pulling the quilt down to the foot of the bed. A quick adjustment of the pillows, and a rummage in the top drawer of the nightstand to find the lube and Chris sprawls across the expanse of the California King mattress, the sheets soft and cool against his bare skin.

“Oh yeah, that’s better – naked skin.” He wriggles a little and grins at the sound of Phil giving a slightly choked cough.

“ You stripped? Hell that was fast.”

“Just the pants.”

“ _Nice_ , you think you could stay dressed like that for all of my next furlough? There is nothing sexier than you wandering around in just a t-shirt that doesn’t quite cover your ass.”

It’s Chris’ turn to catch a surprised breath and before he has time to respond Phil goes on, his voice low and slightly contemplative. “Hmm, well maybe you up against a wall, all eager to get fucked - in the t-shirt-without-the-pants ensemble - _that_ would be sexier.”

“Oh, you’re just filthy tonight aren’t you?” Now it’s Chris’ voice that has taken on the deep, languid undertone of comfortable intimacy and he relaxes back into the pillows as Phil continues, a little wistful now.

“I’ve been missing you darling boy – we’ve been making do with text comms for almost a month. I want to hear your voice, those sounds you make when you’re coming apart. I want you tell me what you want to do to me the next time we’re together.”

Chris grins and knows that this is Phil’s way of acknowledging his over-reaction regarding the surfing and apologizing for it at the same time - letting Chris lay out the terms not just of this conversation but of their next meeting, or at least the first few hours of it.

“Hmm you do? Okay…” Chris’ breath hitches for a just a second as he wraps a now well-lubed hand loosely back around his cock and gives himself one long, slow teasing stroke. “…you know what I want? Can you guess? You want me to tell you?”

They are rhetorical questions and the only sound on the other end of the comm channel is a slightly shaky intake of breath and the whisper of cotton as Phil shifts on his sheets, and Chris lets imagination and memory create the vision of Phil stretching out a little, one long leg stretched down the bunk, the other bent at the knee creating enough space for him to comfortably use both hands, the right wrapped competently around his cock, working it in a slow, methodical rhythm, the other almost idly playing with his balls, fingers stroking and tugging at the loose, lightly furred skin, wrapping around to gently squeeze the firm flesh within.

“I want you in the shower, Christ I love watching the water run off you.” The slow heat of arousal once again pulses through Chris as he imagines the long body arched under a stream of steaming water, imagines licking his way up the smooth valley of Phil’s spine, chasing the rivulets with his tongue as they course down the silky, flushed skin. “Mhmm… damn Phil, I want to slide all the way down your body, touch you everywhere, lick every incredible inch of you. So _fucking_ gorgeous.”

A whisper of sound shivers through subspace and Chris knows what Phil is about to say, can hear the intake of breath as he goes to speak and shuts him down. “Don’t say it, don’t even think “for a guy my age” I do _not_ want to hear it. I bet half your fucking staff wants to know what you taste like.”

“Now who’s the one with the filthy mouth?” There’s a hint of gratitude in with the amusement in Phil’s voice and he laughs at Chris’ snapped out response.

“That would be me, the man that’s trying to get off with you over subspace – now stop fucking interrupting me.”

“Pushy bastard.”

“ _Your_ pushy bastard.” Putting a little more pressure on the head of his cock Chris shudders again… “Oh yes damn, all yours.” …and then lets out a long, slow sibilant breath, luxuriating in the feel of the now warmed sheets against his skin watching rapt as the slick, dark flesh of his glans appears and then disappears into the tight wrap of fist and foreskin. “Oh yeah, that’s feeling _really_ good.”

“Hmm… need a little more from you, come on Chris, you’re really good at this.”

Phil’s voice is low and loving and laced with need and Chris can tell, even across more than 80-light years of separation that he’s also feeling pretty damned good, not that he’ll say as much. Another reason they don’t do this very often is that Phil is far too reserved to be all that good at verbalizing either what he wants or what he’s feeling. With the exception of occasional moments of erotic inspiration he tends to leave Chris to do the lion’s share of the work when they’re engaged in comm-sex. Not that Chris particularly cares, he’s more than mouthy enough for the both of them, but he does have to get himself into a very particular head-space to make it work. Right now the feel of his palm sliding over the head of his cock, applying just the right kind of pressure with the heel of his hand, working himself against the lightly furred skin of his abdomen, is making him think of just how much he wants to touch Phil in exactly the same way.

“Like I was saying – _so_ fucking gorgeous. Just leaning up against the wall, waiting for me to touch you, waiting for me to kneel down behind you and slide my hand around and wrap it around your prick – hot and full and hard – and all for me.”

There’s a grunt of needy pleasure from the other end of the comm link and Chris relaxes into the flow of the words. “You feel so damn good when you’re just letting me touch you, stroke you…” His voice is so low it’s turned into a deeply intimate caress, a dark, carnal whisper that vibrates up from his chest and Chris slides his own hand lower, curving the fingers around the velvet warmth of his balls, teasing himself as he goes on. “… run my mouth up the back of your thigh, make you bend just a little further, spread you wide until I can slide my tongue against your balls, taste and tease you until you’re shaking and then, when you’re least expecting it jerk you hard while I fuck you with my tongue.” He pauses, pressing down with his middle finger on the smooth, silky skin of his perineum, shuddering at the deep throb of sensation that flares out along his nerves, and in the space of silence he hears Phil whimper and then mutter, barely audible.

“Ohhh…Jesus fuck, Chris… _gonnamakemecome_ …” the words peter out in a slightly strangled gasp.

“Ohh yeah…make you come so hard you fucking see stars…”

In the abstract he might have wanted to stretch this out given how rarely they do it, but it’s been too long, and neither of them has the patience for extended foreplay right now so Chris spreads a little more lube on his fingers and braces his heels on the mattress, setting up a fast, hard rhythm as he fucks his fist and lets his mouth run ahead of his brain.

“Oh fuck, nghh…I want to fuck you with my tongue until you’re so loose and slick that I can slide three fingers all the way in to the knuckles. No other prep, just stretch you and spread you and fuck you with my fingers. I want to be in you, I want to fuck you. Phil – _Jesus_ \- you have no idea how badly I want to sink into you right now.” A spike of something sharp and sweet skitters down Chris’ spine and he has to take a deep breath to steady his voice before he goes, on. “No idea how much I love the way you trust me, the way you open up for me until I can just shove my cock up your ass and do it again and again and again, fuck you so hard until we’re sweating and shaking and I’m coming so hard I pass out.“

And _oh fuck_ he’s riding the sharp edge of his own need like a wave, swiping his thumb methodically over the _shinyslick_ skin of his glans until he’s almost there, and then pulling back down hard, sliding away from the crest, prolonging the pleasure for just a moment longer, the same way he pushes the adrenaline rush on a longboard. He’s beyond words now, panting quietly, and all he can hear on the other end of the comm link is the inarticulate sound of Phil coming apart, whimpers and moans and unconnected phonemes and Chris begins to work himself to the edge, his hand a tight, sweet vice as he presses his head back into the pillows and finally lets go. He comes in an overwhelming moment of white noise and aching constriction, his muscles wire-taut as his cock jerks and spasms, painting his stomach and chest with stripes of viscous, milky come.

“Fuuuckk….” Long moments later Phil’s voice is still just a graveled whisper as they both try to get breathing and heart rate back under control.

“Hmm…needed that.” Chris is sprawled across the center of the bed, arms and legs spread wide as his cock slowly subsides against his belly. His heart is still thrumming in his chest, the warm post-orgasmic flush leaving him lethargic and more profoundly content than he’s felt in weeks and he’s relaxed enough to wait out Phil’s recovery in companionable silence.

While he’s waiting he sucks down half of the litre bottle of water that’s on his nightstand and then finally Phil gives a long, low sigh of satisfaction and asks,

“So, can you make it out to _Syrma_ at the end of next month?”

“Sure, it’s semester break, I’ve got two weeks. If I can’t catch a ‘fleet ride I can always dead-head on commercial if I have to.” As a Starfleet captain Chris has dead-heading privileges on any Federation registered ship, he’s just not supposed to use them to expedite a dirty weekend – or week in this case.

“Let me know when you have an ETA and I’ll make the hotel arrangements – the beach resort we used the last time okay with you?

“Oh yeah, it’s pretty isolated, but I don’t plan on being out of bed much, do you?”

Phil laughs quietly. “Only to watch you catching a few waves.”

Yep, he’s forgiven, and Chris grins into the darkness, laughing outright when Phil goes on. “Oh, and do me a favour, bring those indecent cut-offs with you – not that you’re going to get out in public in them, but damn they’re the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen on you.”

“Not a problem.” Chris has had the cut-off jeans in question since he was at the Academy. They’re worn to a faded butter-softness and he finally stopped wearing them in public sometime in his late-twenties when he realized that he was risking a public indecency charge whenever he went out in them. But by then Phil had already seen the way they clung to his ass and displayed just a little too much flesh when he went commando and petitioned for a stay of execution when he’d been ready to pitch them.

Whatever either of them is about to say next is interrupted by the sound of a chime on Phil’s end that reminds them their time is running short.

“I guess that means you have to go?”

“Yeah, we’re on restricted communication time until relay station 132 is back online.” He pauses and Chris knows he’s trying to find a way to say goodbye, without actually saying the words, both of them stupidly superstitious about ending any long-distance conversation with anything that final. “I miss you – try to stay out of trouble until I see you.”

“Sure. How long are you in range?”

“If nothing bad happens, then we’ll be hanging around _Deep Space Five_ for the next week or so, I’ll try to line up another call before we head out to _Gamma Hydrae_.”

“Okay, I’ll write tomorrow and talk to you in a couple of days, and Phil…” It’s Chris’ turn to search for an appropriate end to their conversation and he finally settles for a simple. “…love you.”

“You too, sweet boy, always.”

As the comm signal dies and the apartment echoes to the sound of the sign-off chime, Chris unwinds back into the warm embrace of the now creased sheets and is reminded once again, forcefully, of another good reason they don’t do this very often. As much as he craves sex with Phil, it’s all the other physical intimacies that he really misses and in the aftermath of a powerful and intensely satisfying orgasm what he really wants now, and when he was younger he would _never_ have believed he’d ever admit this, is to curl around all 83 kilos of warm, sated almost-sixty-year-old Starfleet surgeon and fall asleep, both of them secure in the knowledge that they are loved, and safe and above all, together.

****

Seven weeks and three days later Chris slides open the front door of a beach-front, three room cabin at the remote tropical resort that they've enjoyed on Phil’s last two shore-leaves and, throwing his duffel onto the couch, looks all the way through into the master bedroom and grins at the sound of the shower.


End file.
